I’m not depressed, but I am profoundly sad. What I feel is grief; the grief of losing something I thought I had finally regained. I had never allowed myself to hope that I could teach again, but the moment I let myself believe, I opened myself up to a grief deeper than I ever imagined.
I regret hoping, dreaming, believing that I could build a meaningful life again, because losing it feels unbearable. As much as I try to cling to the words, “this too shall pass,” those words feel hollow and completely devoid of any comfort.
I poured myself into preparing for a part-time teaching job that seemed possible, and for a while, I felt alive again. But when my health couldn’t withstand the class I was given, it was taken away. That loss left me devastated, discouraged, and questioning where I can still find meaning and purpose.
I feel lost. I want to matter again, to contribute something of value, but I don’t know how. Most mornings I wake up and can’t think of a single thing worth doing beyond the bare minimum of household chores, and even those are slipping. Even simple things, like making a meal or refilling my water glass, feel meaningless and heavy, like a waste of time.
I want to feel happy, to feel joyful – to feel anything other than numb and lost. But I can’t seem to reach those feelings anymore. I do hope they’ll return someday, but right now even hoping feels like more than I have the strength for.
One of the hardest parts is when well-meaning people respond with, ‘Have you tried this?’ or ‘I bet you could do that.’ I know they want to help, but it feels dismissive of how much I’ve already tried and failed.
Tutoring, online teaching, the library, volunteer work – I’ve explored them all. Even by writing books and teaching materials, I’ve lost a far more than I’ll ever earn trying to get the word out there about the things I’ve written or created, so all of those attempts have cost me more than twice the amount I’ve ever made. I’ve lost money at every attempt, after spending months of time, energy, and effort, which makes my financial situation even more precarious.
The joy I once found in writing books, sharing my experiences, hoping to help others, has faded. There is nothing sadder than pouring your heart and soul into a book only to discover that no one wants to read it. If people don’t buy it, what was the point of doing it? Yes, writing can bring some self-healing, but the steady hope that my words might help someone else has dimmed. Despite my best efforts in writing and marketing, book after book has fallen flat, and with it, the sense of purpose I was reaching for.
Each attempt has run into barriers with my health, finances, or physical limitations. Having to explain or justify why it didn’t work only deepens my sadness and sense of loss.
Right now, all I can really do is sit with the grief and acknowledge the weight of it. I feel very alone in this – how could I not? I’ve poured so much time, energy, and effort into trying, re-learning, researching, and not giving up. I’ve tried and failed, and tried again, over and over. But each time it feels like I end up at another dead end, facing more closed doors and more empty hours in my day.
It’s easy enough to say, “Things will happen as they should,” or “God has a plan,” but after so many failed efforts and closed doors, I find little comfort in those words. The small voice that used to whisper, “I’ll try again tomorrow,” trembles now, unable to speak without getting choked up.
I haven’t given up or lost my faith, but I’ve lost the ability to believe there are still options or that something out there might actually work. I feel too beaten down to summon the strength to try again. The resilience, persistence, and hopefulness that once defined me are gone.
If I’m honest, I’m really no worse off than before. But back then, I carried this sense that things were improving, moving forward, heading somewhere. Now I just feel… nothing.
Each day feels like going through motions: getting up, doing chores, shopping for groceries, and making bland, tasteless meals that still make my gut hurt. Even the rare treat comes at a huge physical cost. Then there’s the constant cycle of scheduling medication deliveries, remembering pills and injections, and keeping track of it all. It leaves me with this overwhelming sense of aimlessness, like I’m not really living, just existing, with nothing meaningful to hold onto.
While I’m not really worse off than before, now it just feels like I’m going through the motions – chores, meals, medications – without any sense of purpose. I feel like I’m existing, but not really living
I’m not hopeless exactly… I’m just no longer hopeful, and that feels like an even heavier burden.
